The End, page 11
“Absolutely not,” she says emphatically, and it’s a relief to hear her sound so certain. “A lot of things were going on that night. Tilda was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Maybe,” I say.
But I know she was heading somewhere. She was going to talk to someone.
Who was it? I have no clue. I know so little of what Tilda’s been up to this summer, who she’s spent time with. And all our mutual friends were already at the after-party at Ali’s place when I got there.
“Simon. You know you can talk to us about anything, right?”
“Sure.”
Stina perches on the edge of the bed and takes my hand. I can tell that she’s unsure about how to put whatever she’s going to say next into words, but that she needs to get it off her chest.
Don’t say anything, I think. I want to talk about Tilda, but I don’t know how to begin. Just give me some time. Please.
Stina clears her throat and I know it’s too late.
“You know we love you unconditionally,” she says. “Even if you did this. We’re going to solve this together.”
I yank my hand back.
“I don’t think you did do it,” Stina adds quickly. “I just want you to know that if you had, we’d—”
“Go away,” I say, and turn to face the wall.
always seemed weird
he was totally obsessed with her
“Go away!”
“We have to talk about this,” Stina says.
“Tilda is dead. It doesn’t matter if we talk. She’s still not coming back.”
The sound of our breathing fills the room.
“I’m so fucking sick of this,” Stina says at last. “Half the town comes to my church for help, but my own son doesn’t even want to . . .”
Her voice grows quiet. She’s crying now. Part of me aches with guilt. Another part of me hates her for staying here and feeling sorry for herself. This isn’t about her.
But both parts agree on one thing: I can’t deal with this scene right now. I just want to lie here until it’s all over. And I do mean over.
Let the fucking comet come.
“Mom,” I say. “Can you leave? Please?”
She sniffles wetly and gets up, but stays standing on the floor next to the bed.
Leave. Leave. Leave.
The door shuts behind her quietly. I’m finally alone.
3 WEEKS, 3 DAYS LEFT
NAME: LUCINDA
TELLUS #0392811002
POST 0015
Iread comments and posts all day and can’t recognize the Tilda being described—someone out of control, someone wild, someone lost. The fact that she was taking drugs seems widely known, even though it’s only there between the lines.
How is that possible? I know people do what they can to deal with the idea of Foxworth. But Tilda?
I scroll through her social media. Look at photographs from the summer. Am I imagining things, or can I see it in her eyes? I look at the people around her and wonder if one of them killed her.
More and more comments about Simon start popping up. Apparently, he was “obsessed with her.” People saw them arguing in the square after the soccer game and at the pool party. I study photos taken there, but can’t come up with any answers.
I keep returning to her profile picture. It was taken just as she turned toward the camera. Her hair fans across half her face, but you can tell by her eyes that she’s smiling.
Tilda’s death is exactly the sort of case the newspapers would have loved to write about before the comet: A beautiful teenage girl. Good grades. An ambitious athlete. Well-liked by everyone who knew her. But most importantly, young and lovely. With long hair. Neat, clean, from a good family. Found in a dirty and deserted industrial park.
And then the secrets would be exposed: The drugs. The parties. She’d be made to seem weak, be cast as a victim, even in life.
People would have loved it. We love beautiful dead girls. We get our kicks hearing the gory details. We make movies and television shows about them, write books and articles about them. We want to see them raped and brutally murdered. We let them be discovered naked, posed as if in a perfume ad. Cut to a medical examiner who nonchalantly eats his sandwich while leaning over a body that’s become a cold slab of meat in a morgue. Cut to a flashback scene in which we see the victim alive, sexy, unaware of her imminent demise.
But nowadays, a case like Tilda’s doesn’t get attention outside the social media circuit. We have to get our kicks there instead. People try to make Tilda out to be either an innocent angel or a bad girl who was doomed from the start.
I hope Simon didn’t do it. I don’t want to believe that, in her last moments, Tilda knew her murderer was someone she loved, or had loved, once.
Thinking about that day on the swimming dock or about the times they visited me at the hospital, I find it hard to believe Simon is responsible. He loved Tilda. I know that. Not that that means anything. I know what the statistics look like: the attacker is rarely a random stranger jumping out from behind a bush. That’s just what we like to think. Those are the stories we tell one another, again and again, to forget the fact that we’re most at risk in our own homes. But the night Tilda died was the night of the game: people had let go of their inhibitions; they had nothing to lose. Tilda being killed might just have been a coincidence. Besides, if Simon had murdered her, would he have called me and asked me if Tilda had been in touch?
It occurs to me that Simon had a cut over his eyebrow when we met on the dock.
Had Tilda tried to fight him off?
I don’t know anything. And I might never know.
I’m not sure how I’m supposed to live with that.
SIMON
I’ve spent all summer running away from thinking about death. Now, there’s no place left to run. Not even sleep is a safe, because I keep dreaming about Tilda—her dead body, the eyes that were either open or closed. I dream about a sky roiling with fire. When I wake up, my heart beats so hard against the mattress that I have to roll onto my back to breathe.
More and more people are posting pictures of Tilda. More and more of the comments are about me. Elin writes that nine times out of ten, it’s the boyfriend. Moa writes, hmmm he arrived p late to the afterparty, with an emoji scratching its chin. Amanda has liked both comments.
My moms come in with plates of food I can’t bring myself to eat.
Emma stands in the doorway with her laptop in her arms and suggests watching a movie together. I pass. I only want to talk to Johannes. He’s coming by at seven. Just a couple of hours left.
Boomer pushes past Emma, approaches the bed, and wags his tail. Whines softly.
“Do you want me to take him?” Emma asks.
“It’s fine. Can you close the door behind you?”
I scooch closer to the wall and call Boomer to hop up onto the bed. He tilts his head, clearly wondering if this is some kind of trick. The bed is usually out of bounds. I pat the mattress next to me.
“Come on. Come here.”
Boomer gathers himself for a leap, then climbs rather than jumps onto the bed. He’s still energetic, but sometimes his age catches up with him. He spins around on the mattress, his large paws heavy on my chest, his tail brushing against my face, until he’s comfortably curled up in the sheets.
In the street, someone screams. My panic goes from zero to a hundred before the scream turns into laughter. I hear glass breaking against the pavement and wonder if Tilda tried to scream for help.
Boomer isn’t worried about whatever’s happening outside the apartment. Soon, my body is vibrating with his snores. When I was little, I used to get up early and fall asleep next to him on the floor. Now, I try to match his breathing.
A cool breeze wakes me up. Boomer has abandoned me and the bed. It looks like someone’s left the window slightly ajar. A silhouette is visible against the faint glow from the streetlights outside. For a second, I wonder if someone’s climbed through the window.
“How are you?” the silhouette says.
Johannes.
“What time is it?” I ask.
My mouth is so dry that my tongue feels sticky.
“It’s almost midnight. Sorry I’m late.”
He sits down at the foot of the bed. I fumble for the bedside lamp’s cord.
“Don’t turn it on,” he says.
“Okay.”
I drag myself into a sitting position. The cold wind caresses my arms. It’s the end of August, but I’ve lost track of how many days we have left.
“Can you close the window?” I ask.
“I think this room could use some fresh air.”
I can hear the smile in his voice. He fumbles along the covers. His fingers briefly brush against my hand as he takes my phone.
“You need to stop looking at that thing. It’s self-harm.”
“It’s better than not knowing what they’re writing about me.”
Johannes hands me a glass that someone has left on my bedside table. The water is surprisingly cold, and my mind clears a little with each sip. “I don’t know what to say, except I’m so fucking sorry. I can’t believe she’s gone,” he says when I’ve put aside the empty glass.
Gone. It feels more real now that Johannes is here. He’s a link to the best part of my life with Tilda. She and I, Johannes and Amanda, did almost everything together. Me, the guy who’d never really fit in anywhere, suddenly belonged.
I wasn’t just in love with Tilda; I was in love with my life with her. I couldn’t understand what she saw in me. I couldn’t believe I’d been so lucky.
“Does everyone think I did it?” I say.
“No. I don’t think you did it.”
Johannes places a hand on my knee. I can feel the warmth of it through the covers. For some reason, that gentle touch is enough to make me cry.
“I shouldn’t have let her walk away alone,” I say.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“I couldn’t . . . She didn’t want to stay with me,” I go on, and I no longer know if I’m talking about that night or the entire summer. “If I hadn’t begged, if I hadn’t been so pathetic, she might have—”
“Of course you were pathetic,” Johannes cuts in. “You loved her. Plus, the world is ending. You didn’t exactly have time to play hard to get.”
I laugh, snot spraying over half my face. I’m grateful it’s so dark in here.
“They know me,” I say. “How the hell can they think I’d kill Tilda?”
Johannes waits a long moment before answering me.
“It’s got nothing to do with you,” he says at last. “It’s just easier to think that it’s you.”
“Easier how?”
“It’s easier to move on if there aren’t any question marks.”
Move on? What a fucking joke.
I hate them. And yet, I know I would have reacted the same way. I can’t stand not knowing what happened to Tilda. Just finding out the truth would be such a relief. Even if it turned out that someone I know is the murderer.
You know our situation, Maria said. We won’t be able to investigate this properly.
If whoever killed Tilda isn’t found, everyone is going to keep thinking I did it. In which case, I probably won’t see any of my friends again.
“Can’t you talk to Amanda?” I say. “Get her to understand?”
“I’ve tried. But I’ll try again.”
We sit silently in the dark. Johannes’s hand is still on my knee.
“Amanda and I broke up.”
“What?”
A part of me feels relieved, though it’s tinged with guilt. Johannes will have more time for me. And I need him more than ever.
“What happened?” I ask.
Johannes hesitates. “Being with her didn’t feel fair anymore. I have feelings for someone else.” He clears his throat. “I’ve had them for a while now.”
My eyes start adjusting to the darkness. I can tell that he’s gazing up at the ceiling as if searching it for some way to continue.
“Is it someone we know?” I say. “It isn’t Elin, is it?”
He laughs. “No. It isn’t Elin.”
Johannes shifts positions, but his hand is still on my knee. His fingers start tapping gently against the covers.
“There’s something I have to tell you,” he says.
I can tell by the tone of his voice that it’s bad news. And I can’t take any more bad news.
“I’m leaving town tomorrow,” he says. “I’m staying in a commune in Stockholm.”
I sit completely still while his words puncture me, a bullet that tears me apart.
“What are you going to do in Stockholm?”
“There are some things I need to try before it’s too late.”
“Like what?”
“I’m sorry. I know the timing sucks, but I have to do this.”
“Why?”
His eyes gleam in the darkness as he turns to face me.
“Simon,” he says. “Don’t you get it?”
I open my mouth to say no, but close it again. Things start falling into place.
Our kiss during the latest ice game. The feeling that he wanted to tell me something.
Amanda’s tantrum.
His voice just a second ago.
Yes. I get it.
I don’t say anything. All I can think to say is too selfish.
Don’t go. Stay here for my sake.
“Will you be back?” I say instead.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“What have your parents said? Your brothers?”
“They don’t know yet. I’ve written them a letter.”
In the darkness, it feels easy to take his hand. It’s so much larger than the hands I’m used to holding: my moms’, Emma’s, Tilda’s.
Johannes stiffens but doesn’t pull away.
“You’ll never feel the same way I do,” he says in a low voice. “Will you?”
I squeeze his hand harder before I let it go. Everything would be so much simpler if I could say yes.
“No.”
“I know. I just had to ask.” He tries to laugh. “Considering there’s no time to play hard to get.”
“If I could . . .”
“I know.”
I try to think of something to say. How long has he felt this way about me? How could I not see it?
“I’ll get going,” Johannes says.
No. I need someone who believes in me. I need a friend. Don’t leave me, too. We’ll never see each other again if you do. You and Tilda were the most important people in my life, and if you leave, you’ll both be gone forever.
“Take care,” I say.
“You too.”
“Text me when you make it to Stockholm.”
NAME: LUCINDA
TELLUS #0392811002
POST 0016
We told Miranda that Tilda is dead. And I’ve been making promises about heaven again.
I don’t know if you have religion where you are. To summarize: some people are convinced they know all about those things you can’t possibly know anything about. In our part of the world, a lot of people believe in a fantasy novel full of plot holes and contradictions that was written a few thousand years ago. The protagonist, God, acts like a spoiled brat whenever people don’t behave according to his orders or don’t love him deeply enough.
Did I tell you that one of Simon’s moms is a priest? That’s a person who teaches others about the contents of said fantasy novel. I wonder what she has to say about Foxworth. Does she shrug and go, “The Lord works in mysterious ways”? That’s what Christians usually say when God acts like a douche. With the comet, though, he’s probably beat some kind of personal record. (Christians also say that God doesn’t give you more than you can handle. I’ve always hated that; the world consistently shows us that’s not the case. Especially now.)
And still, I found myself promising Miranda that Tilda is one of the people we’ll meet again in heaven—in God’s eternal paradise. I even catch myself wishing I could believe it. I actually don’t believe anything happens when you die. I think it just ends. The thought is less frightening to me than the idea of enduring eternity somewhere.
My little sister loved Tilda, who always listened patiently to her stories about the intricate workings of middle school life. They drew, they chased each other around the house, they recorded short movies on Miranda’s phone and looked at adorable animals on YouTube. All those things I never took the time to do.
“Why would someone kill Tilda when she was going to die anyway?” Miranda asked.
How could I answer that? Now I can’t stop thinking about it.
Tilda should have had the chance to make the most of the time we had left. And someone took that away from her.
3 WEEKS, 2 DAYS LEFT
NAME: LUCINDA
TELLUS #0392811002
POST 0017
They’re talking about the American prison system on the news. Half the U.S. wants to let everyone except the worst offenders walk free. The other half wants to execute prisoners as quickly as possible, thereby depriving them of the privilege of dying with the rest of us and escaping their punishments. The broadcast showed images from a prison filmed with a hidden phone. It looked like hell on Earth. Most of the staff has just stopped going to work. Prisoners are starving to death in solitary confinement.
Cut to a debate in the studio. A celebrity lawyer and a celebrity cop talk about our Swedish solution: letting everyone sentenced to fewer than two years go. But what about those who commit violent crimes now? Who’s going to find them, judge them, punish them? It makes me think of Tilda. What sort of sentence would her killer receive if we actually found them? The internet is full of “justice porn,” page after page of people being hunted down by lone avengers and citizen militias. They’re being shot, stabbed, stoned, and buried alive. Most of the videos are from Russia. I refuse to look at them.
Amanda wrote to me this morning. It was the first time in a long time that I responded to the outside world’s attempts to get in touch with me. And it added some pieces to the puzzle that was Tilda’s life. I’ve pasted the messages below.
